


Garbage Business

by verymetalbasterd



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26355691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verymetalbasterd/pseuds/verymetalbasterd
Summary: Hoping to get back at Way for ruining a perfectly planned heist, Toro sends Frank to infiltrate and gather information on the Ways.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Kudos: 9





	1. The Mole

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Gory here, my friend and I actually wrote this together in the from of an rp!!
> 
> Also, I'm doing my best with the mafia research but if there's anything I've got wrong please let me know so I can rectify it!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The day was drawing to an end, evening sky was casting soft shadows into the room. Ray sank down into the big leather chair at his desk.

The Ways had somehow found out about the bank heist that was supposed to happen earlier in the day, it had been sabotaged by one of Way's men tipping the bank off. Twelve of his best men had been arrested. 

He needed to find a way into the enemy's territory, but Way had too much information on who Toro had employed, he'd have to find someone new.

It was difficult to find recruits for the American-based Spanish mafia, but the Toros always had some tricks up their sleeves. Ray considered calling his father to ask for advice, but thought the better of it since he didn't want to burden his old man with things he should be able to do himself. Instead, he picked the phone up and called an old friend.

The next day, Ray Toro's childhood friend Franklin Anthony Iero was brought into his office while he was reading the morning newspapers. He set the papers down and stood to greet the shorter man. His greeting was reciprocated.

"Franklin, it's good to see you." Ray gestured for Frank to take a seat opposite his desk. He did.

"Yeah, you too. It's been a while." Frank replied. Folding his hands in his lap, Frank's eyes darted around the room, taking in the ornate decor. The chandelier on the center of the ceiling cast eerie shadows on Ray's face, Frank tries to remember that they've been friends since they were young and that Ray is an absolute _dork._

Ray could see Frank was struggling to sit still, he almost looked nervous. Almost.

"It has. Now, I hear you're unemployed?" Ray raises his eyebrows in question.

Frank nods.

"Brilliant." Ray continues. Frank itches his neck. "Everything okay, Frank?" 

Frank seems to struggle to get his words out but eventually manages a "Yes, Mr Toro."

Ray laughs and insists he call him Ray, they are childhood friends after all.

He asks Frank why he's nervous.

"Well..." Frank hesitates. "You know I'm... Italian, right? Like the Ways. Well," He corrects, "Half Italian." He knows he shouldn't really be here.

Ray smirks. "Oh yes. I'm aware."

Frank looks uncomfortable. Ray's got something up his sleeve and Frank doesn't know if he wants to find out what it is.

Suddenly, the door behind Frank opens, Ray's gaze lifts over his head, Frank doesn't turn around.

"Mr. Toro, a letter for you." Bob Bryar, Ray's second-in-command enters without knocking. Ray reminds the blonde man about manners and shoos him away after taking the mail from him. Bob leaves without acknowledging Frank at all.

Silently, Ray opens the letter and gives it a thorough read before looking back at Frank, who raises his eyebrows in anticipation.

"Read this." Ray hands the letter to Frank. He reads it, looks up at Ray in confusion, and then skims the letter again.

"I'm... I'm joining the Italian mafia?" He asks. Frank was right, he _didn't_ want to know what Ray had up his sleeve.

Smiling, Ray folds his arms and leans back in his chair. "Damn right you are. But you're still under my command officially, you hear?" He says, pointing at the - half - Italian.

"Uh-"

"Yes, good. Now, let's go over the details. But first, do you have any questions?" Ray asks, hoping to clear up anything he was worried about.

Frank stared blankly for a few seconds.

“S-So I’m like... a mole? You want their information?” he asks, a prickle of sweat spiking the back of his neck.

“Precisely,” Ray states, leaning forwards, elbows on his desk, "That letter is your way in. We’ve already been in contact with Way, to some extent. He knows of your heritage and we devised a letter to him from nobody in particular, signed from ‘a hopeful.’ He believes you grew up with knowledge of the Italians in Florence, and that your father worked closely with them.” He pauses to gauge Frank’s reaction; nodding slowly, taking in the information. He continues, “of course, that doesn’t have to be true, just use what you know about how we operate, I suppose, if things happen to become.. anecdotal.”

Ray pauses again, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Frank lets out a breath he doesn’t realise he is holding.

“Okay... I think I can do this,” he says, managing a small and hesitant smile, which Ray mirrors broadly.

“Excellent!! You already look the part, too,” he beams, gesturing to Frank’s white-tee-leather-jacket combo. Frank looks down at himself and chuckles; black jeans and boots cover his lower half, a studded belt poking out from the lazily tucked tee.

“Yeah, you got me there.” Frank stands, folding the letter and putting it into his back pocket.

“As the letter states, Way will be meeting you tonight. He will be alone, likely carrying, but...” Ray opens his desk drawer and takes out a small revolver, a box of bullets, and a folded sheet of paper, putting them on his desk and sliding them towards Frank. “...you will be safe. You won’t need to use this, but you can never be too careful. Men like us, we’re men of our word. If he is interested in you, he won’t hurt you.”

Frank nods and picks up the gun cautiously, running his thumb over the grooves in the metal before slipping it into his jacket pocket.

“We typed another copy of our letter to Way for you, so you can revise your background and whatnot before tonight. Now, go prepare yourself.”

“Yes, thank you... I will,” Frank says, a little more confident than before, taking the box and the letter. “I’ll come see you soon, Ray. Take care of yourself.”

Ray nods, and Frank turns to leave, a new world having just been unfolded in front of him.

-

Frank lets himself into his small apartment, pulling the letter out of his jacket before hanging the garment up and making his way through to the kitchen. He opens a bottle of whiskey from the countertop and pours a small glass, sitting at the table, unfolding the paper. He lays it flat in front of him and lights up a cigarette, reading through his altered persona.

His father was a supposed right hand man in the Italian mafia’s Florence faction, and he had worked under him for periods on stays there. He wants to rejoin the mafia for the excitement it brings and the good memories going out with his father and his boys. Frank takes a deep drag and chuckles on the exhale; Ray was so dramatic sometimes, it almost sounded like a cliche, the way he had set him up as some badass mob boss’ son. He could only hope that Way had a penchant for the dramatic and that his acting skills had gotten better since middle school.

Frank sips his whiskey gingerly. He was meeting Way at midnight - a cliche suggested by the man himself - which is a couple of hours from now. Should he change too much about his appearance? Would a suit be more fitting, or would the cheaper, more nonchalant look suffice? Frank bites his lip and takes a nervous drag. He definitely doesn’t look as expensive as a mob boss’ son.

The cigarette hangs from between Frank’s lips as he stands, whiskey in hand, and makes his way to his bathroom, swapping his glass for some hair gel. He takes a generous scoop and runs it through his hair - managing to smoke with his hands and focus occupied - and slicks his shaggy black locks back, not too neatly, but just enough to show he has made an effort. His hands fumble around his belt, properly tucking in the tee.

Frank takes the cigarette between his index and middle finger and exhales, taking in his reflection in the mirror. He smiles and ashes into the sink, nervous, yet ready for the night.


	2. The Don

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don Gerard Way prepares to meet a potential new employee, recommended by an anonymous source.

After starting the day with a little sabotage, Gerard set down his gun and holster onto his carved oak desk. He calls his brother Mikey into his office.

“Yes, Don Way?” Mikey asks, poking his head into the room. His brother only addressed him this way if others were around, meaning Pete is with him.

“I have an appointment tonight.” He states. Mikey steps fully into the room. “I’d like if you picked me up a new suit from Stefano’s, if you can.” He walks up to the small mirror on the bookshelf and puts his shoulder length black hair up into a bun - just to keep his hair out of his face for now- and exposes the thick pink scar that traced the outline of his cheek. A strand rebels and falls out of the hair tie, laying gracefully down his face. He doesn’t fix it.

“Of course. The usual colours?” Mikey eyes the scar from where he is, it’s still very visible even from distance between them.

Gerard nods without even giving Mikey’s question proper thought. The younger Way turns to leave, closing the door behind him.

Red and black have been the colours of the Way family for centuries, as far back as Gerard could research, the colours have been used to represent the family. It was a rarity for Gerard to wear any other colours.

Retreating back to his desk, Gerard sits in his dark leather chair and from a drawer he pulls out the letter he was sent just a few hours ago, the sender should have received his response by now..

He was looking forward to meeting the young man mentioned in the letter, considering he was a recommendation from an anonymous source.

It meant Gerard had to be prepared for a shootout. Mikey - or rather, everyone - hadn’t been happy with Gerard deciding to honour the meetup specifications by attending the appointment alone, but he could take care of himself if things went sideways. He resists the urge to hide his scar.

After spending a few hours sitting at his desk coming up with the most probable outcomes, Gerard finishes up by planning through the scenarios as best he could, preparing for the worst.

He looks up at the clock sitting on his fireplace shelf, the once roaring flames now reduced to smoldering embers. Fourty minutes past nine. He’s expecting Mikey with his suit any minute, so he leaves his office quietly.

Gerard bumps into a lone Pete as he rounds a corner on his way through the main corridor. Upon seeing the Don, Pete immediately stands up straight and nods at him, apologising. Gerard nods back and carries on down the corridor, wondering why he wasn’t with Mikey, and especially why he was heading toward Gerard’s office. He gives it no further thought, if Pete had something say to him he could have said it just then.

The Don enters his private quarters and waits there for his brother.

After Mikey arrives, he quickly changes into his new clothes, Gerard takes a moment to assess his suit. Stefano was good at picking out things Gerard loved to wear. This time he had chosen a black pinstripe blazer with a red handkerchief sitting in the pocket, black trousers, a blood red dress shirt, and a black tie. After putting on his black and red Italian wingtip shoes, he admires how menacing he looks, the scar on his cheek makes him look terrifying, but he decides it would be better if it was hidden for this meeting and takes the hair tie out, letting it sit around his wrist.

It takes an hour to drive to the meeting point from the house, and Gerard liked to be early as a sign of respect.

He reholsters his gun and buckles it around his torso, his gun resting against his ribcage and checks the time. Ten thirty. He takes his hair down, hiding his scar.

He doesn’t see anyone as he leaves.

Taking one of the cheaper cars to avoid any unwanted attention, Gerard heads toward the coast of New Jersey.

The drive was rather boring - aside from a car that tailed him for a while, losing them eventually - but the silence in the car gave Gerard a chance to mentally go over his scenarios and plans for the meeting. The New Jersey Docks wasn’t a strange place for a regular appointment, but it was a strange place for meeting someone for the first time. Gerard notes that he’s dangerously close to Toro territory and is careful not to drive through any streets that aren’t his.

Gerard drives into the mouth of some shipping containers that were laid out in a ‘U’ shape to create an enclosed space with one entry. He parks his car parallel to the container facing the mouth of the entrance, exits his car and stands with his back to the side of the vehicle, facing the mouth of the entrance. He waits.

\--

Frank approaches the docks, a cigarette hanging from his mouth which has long burnt out by now as he looks around, ensuring the absence of others, and makes his way down a pier leading to where the shipping containers are stored by the road.

Barely turning the corner by the harbour office, he pulls a lighter from his pocket, the dim glow illuminating the office through the window. Frank takes a deep drag and notices himself in the reflection, his exhale hiding his face. He remembers how he used to play here with Ray when they were children, and now he was back, awaiting a mob boss to recruit him into the fucking _mafia_. Suddenly he is all too aware of the revolver’s small yet certain weight in his pocket, fully loaded and resting against his hip, and he takes a deep breath.

Frank takes another deep inhale of his cigarette, and his eyes widen as the reflection of the glow outlines a shadow in the window; in the mouth of the street entrance was a parked car, and... a figure.

Frank turns slowly and glances at his watch to find it is midnight on the dot. He swallows and approaches. The man is facing the street entrance, his car blocking any intruders (perhaps not realising he was not dealing with someone as high a status as himself - Frank was struggling to keep his roof over his head, let alone drive any vehicle), but even from behind Frank can see he is strikingly well-dressed and fearfully notes that his clothes are _not_ smart enough for this.

He stops a few meters away and without taking his cigarette from his mouth, he clears his throat tactfully.

“Sir? His voice cuts through the night like glass, he didn't mean to be so loud.

Gerard could hear someone approaching, but only turns when the person speaks, presumably addressing him, his gaze drops a few feet to meet the young man’s face. He’s shorter than Gerard expected.

He takes a moment to take in who he’s looking at. The man has high, arched eyebrows and round eyes, making him look youthful and innocent but the upturned lips and way he holds himself makes him look unbreakable. Gerard takes note of what he’s wearing, looking him up and down. He’s not impressed at the outfit since it’s simply a plain white t-shirt tucked into some jeans and a black leather jacket, but Gerard can’t help but think how well the shorter man wears it. The Don feels the corner of his lip turn up, smirking at his own thoughts.

Gerard’s seen greasers around town plenty of times, but he can’t say he’s ever seen this particular one. Perhaps he’s not even a greaser, and that’s just the way he dresses without even knowing about the subculture. Gerard wonders if he really lives up to the high expectations that the anonymous letter sender told him.

His eyes linger on the man's lips holding the lit cigarette and admires how the glow of the cherry lights up his face.

“Good evening.” Gerard responds after a judgmental silence and takes a few steps closer to the short man, hands in the pockets of his slacks. “You must be Franklin Iero, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He takes his right hand out of his pocket and outstretches it toward the other man once he’s close enough, the momentum of his arm lifting the edge of his blazer to momentarily reveal the shiny silver pistol resting against the side of his ribcage. He wonders if it looked like he did it purposefully, either way he's sure it was noticed.

The Don smiles down at Franklin in a way he knows is intimidating. A smile that doesn’t 100% reach his eyes.

He hopes this kid can make up for the lack of presentation with some kind of skill. He doesn't need another annoyingly stupid bastard like Euringer working for him.

Frank forces a smile back and takes the hand offered to him, shaking it with all the confidence he can muster. Of course, the man he assumes is Don Gerard Way is taller than himself, but Frank has to stop himself losing composure at how delicately beautiful he is. The way his long, jet-black hair frames his face and the soft features upon it made Frank’s stomach flutter, a feeling which he quickly pushes down when he spots the pistol hiding under his blazer.

“Please, call me Frank,” he says, managing to avoid a stutter and turning it into a small giggle, “only my grandma calls me Franklin nowadays.”

He releases the hand, disregarding a mental note of how silky the skin felt under his, and takes his cigarette from his lips, tossing the butt into the darkness, before taking out his pack and brandishing two new ones, offering one out to Gerard. “You smoke?”

Gerard mentally critiques Iero’s handshake, he feels the nervous energy buzzing underneath the confidence. Gerard gets it, meeting the head of the Italian-American Mafia can be quite daunting, not that he’d know - but his father intimidated him greatly.

He notices Franklin’s lingering gaze and concludes that he’s being studied by the shorter man. He nods with a small smile when asked to call him Frank and not Franklin, a short chuckle escaping his lips.

Without saying a word, he takes the cigarette from Iero’s hand, plucking it from his grasp. The Don pulls a shiny black lighter with silver and red ornate engravings on it from his breast pocket and clicks it to light his cigarette, cupping the flame to protect it from the wind. He puffs twice before taking a long drag, inhaling over half an inch of the cigarette. He holds out the lighter and clicks it, offering the stranger his flame to light his own.

“I’ll be referring to you via your surname, I hope that’s alright with you. At least until I trust you, Iero.” He quirks his eyebrow up at the other man. He hopes a little banter will make him feel less intimidated, he doesn’t really want to reflect his father but sometimes he finds himself hardening up far too much for his liking. He has to constantly remind himself to be a little friendlier to his men.

“I would like if you refer to me the same way. Mr or Don Way is acceptable.”

Frank nods, taking the lighter cautiously. “Of course, sir. Uh, I mean, of course, Mr Way.” Fuck. He clicks the lighter and takes a drag that isn’t nearly as impressive, but draws it out, trying to think of something to cement his credentials more. “In Florence me and my dad would always get confused, ‘cause my pops, my grandad, he would call us both Iero. Confused the hell outta the other guys too.”

Gerard chuckles at Iero’s use of ‘sir’, “No need to worry about that, Sir is also acceptable. Though I must admit it’s not preferred.” He sighs, thinking of when his father used to force Mikey and himself to refer to the previous Don as ‘sir’, calling him dad for even *father* had some unpleasant repercussions.

The Don carefully took in Iero’s anecdote and finds it amusing since the people he hired usually had to be asked about their private lives. Gerard does what he can for the wellbeing of his men, protecting their loved ones in any way he can. He banks the information of Iero living in Florence for a future conversation but doesn’t pry any further in the moment.

Frank notices the design on the lighter and holds it up to the glow of the streetlight, deciding to swiftly change the subject. “This is real cool man, I love the engravings. I just make do with cheap ones from the corner store.” He runs his thumb over the design before passing it back to Gerard.

He watches as the shorter man holds his lighter up to inspect it closer. Chuckling again, he responds, “It was my 16th birthday present from my father. It’s very old but it’s never broken, of course I have to refill it every few months.” He takes the lighter from Iero.

“Follow me.” He says suddenly, swiftly turning and walking toward his car. It may have been cheaper than his usual cars, but it was still rather pricey as it *is* a Lincoln Continental. The black and silver car is so pristine it almost blends in with its surroundings, he opens the passenger car – the paint job perfectly reflecting the nearest streetlight - without saying another word, gesturing for Iero to enter.

Frank’s eyes widen a little and he takes a drag of his cigarette. Ray didn’t say anything about _going anywhere_. He’d been prepared for a shootout, for God’s sake, but not to be _taken somewhere else with the head of the Italian fucking Mafia_ , especially not in a car as fucking fancy as this. He exhales slowly.

Frank realises he’s hesitated for maybe a moment too long before walking towards the other man and getting in, taking a cautionary puff of his smoke. They had just lit up, after all, the guy can’t make Frank go without chain smoking through his nerves for however long they were in the car.

Gerard closes Iero’s door for him and walks around to the driver’s side, entering the car himself, he pulls an ashtray out that’s attached to the dashboard, he lets his cigarette hang from his lips, puffing on it lightly. He starts the car and pulls out of the small enclosed area and onto the road. A few minutes pass in silence as Gerard drives, only the hum of the engine and the exhalation of smoke filling the stiff air.

“We were being watched.” The Don says suddenly, glancing in the rear view mirror.


End file.
